All Things Cease to Appear (40 page)

As she pulled the ledger closer, Catherine realized that the librarian was doing her a favor, that she wanted her to know.

As you can see, she clarified, that’s not your husband’s name.

The book had been checked out by a Willis Howell. That’s odd, Catherine muttered. I wonder who—

It’s unisex, the woman said pointedly.

Excuse me?

The name. But in this case it’s a
she.
A rather young she, I might add. She works at the Black Sheep Inn. We had her once, as our waitress. She never brought our dessert!

The librarian turned the ledger back around and studied Catherine, then said, perhaps out of pity, I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. In any case, you don’t have to pay the fine. The cardholder will have to pay.

Her emphasis on the word
pay
made Catherine understand the hazard at hand, but she revealed nothing, wanting to dispel any possibility of scandal, knowing that, like cheap perfume, it could take over a room.

Franny wasn’t ready to leave, of course. She pitched a tantrum instead, acting out the maelstrom that was well under way inside her mother, who had to carry her off the premises. Strangers watched as she wrestled the screaming child into the car. With her tires squealing, she pulled out, jerked through traffic and turned onto Shaker Road, barreling past the inn with its strategic landscaping and manicured lawns. Behind it was a long barn that had been reconfigured as some sort of dormitory for the help. She pulled up on the side of the road and sat there for a moment, thinking. She had no proof that anything had happened. It occurred to her that she could very possibly be overreacting. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a look, she thought. She’d take Franny as her good-luck charm.

The barn was quiet and dark and empty. In the corral, she could see a young man working with a horse, cracking his long whip as it ran around in circles. She pulled Franny onto her hip and climbed the stairs to a hallway of doors, Franny gaping all around in wonder. She opened one of the doors but the room was clearly a man’s, with heavy work boots under the bed and a gray wool blanket rolled on its end. Down the hall she came to another door, where looped around its knob was a thin, black ribbon.

She knocked. No answer.

Like the first, this door was unlocked, the room empty. Spare and cell-like, she thought. On the neatly made bed, a riding helmet, a crop, a pair of small leather gloves. On a square table was a spiral notebook in which the girl had doodled various cursive renditions of her name, adding rainbows and hearts that looked like little black tears. Disgusted by this adolescent ephemera, Catherine picked up the small, framed photograph of the girl and her mother, and realized she’d seen her in town.

Daddy’s friend, Franny said gaily.

Now a little desperate, she drove to Justine’s, and the movement of the car lulled Franny to sleep. She pulled down the dirt lane; it looked like they were home. She gingerly extricated herself from the car and went to the door as an ornery rooster pecked at her heels. She knocked on the glass, but didn’t see anyone inside.

Justine? she called as she went in.

Music was coming from the bedroom, something classical, maybe Brahms. One of the cats jumped down off the counter, startling her. The smell of coffee. A pot of soup simmering on the stove.

Like a prowler, she wandered down the hall. As she approached their bedroom she glimpsed them—in bed, naked, making love. Justine was astride Bram’s hips, his square hands on her pale, round buttocks, their pleasure apparent, urgent.

Soundlessly, her heart pounding, she hurried out.

Luckily, Franny was still asleep. Catherine started the engine and pulled out to the main road. The sun was bright at midday. Going home suddenly seemed absurd. She drove around for a while through the town, which had nothing at all to do with her. She began to cry, loud sobs rushing up from what felt like the very bottom of her soul. She had to pull over. There was no disguise for real love, she thought, and suddenly understood all that she did not have.

2

IT WASN’T EASY WORK,
but it was work she loved. And it was love that made her work. As it was love that woke her each morning, pulled her across the cold floor and dressed her, that time of year, in long johns and trousers, Bram’s old duck coat and muddy work boots with broken laces that carried her over the freezing path to the barn. And it was love that made the animals never stop giving. When you worked with wool, love from your quietest place ran through your fingers—love you gave by hand to strangers. Clunky tapestries that hung on their shoulders, verdant, mossy, twisted brown roots, icy black streams. Sunrise. Gentle hills and waterfalls, chicaneries of thickets, winterberries. Because what she made—every scarf, every blanket, every wall hanging—was, for her, an offering of love—in return for what she had, for what she saw all around her, the beauty of the land and sky.

She was known for her work. Important people owned pieces—even the famous sculptor you’d see in town, walking with his lover against the wind, wrapped up in a squall of blue and gray. No two of anything were ever alike. It wasn’t just the wool. It was really all about the dye. She used the same techniques that had been around for centuries and it was the dye—and the dissonant assemblage of colors and textures—that distinguished her work.

You always knew a Sokolov scarf, that’s what people told her, so when she saw that girl in the Agway parking lot there was no doubt in her mind that she was wearing one of hers. The color was really extraordinary, she thought. Cochineal with an iron mordant had produced the dreamy purple of a twilight sky. It brought out the girl’s lovely dark eyes. She was putting a sack of feed in the back of a pickup truck that had
Black Sheep Inn
painted on the doors, and then climbed up into the passenger seat.

It wasn’t until much later that Justine remembered that particular scarf and the man who’d bought it as a gift for his new secretary. Considering the somewhat awkward circumstances of his promotion, he’d told her, he wanted to get off on the right foot.

3

ON TUESDAY,
George had lunch with Justine at their usual table. She was wearing a shawl around her shoulders whose black threads kept dripping into her soup as she ate; she didn’t appear to notice.

How’s the commando treating you?

You mean Edith? He smiled. Miss Hodge is remarkably capable.

What did she think of the scarf?

George chewed his sandwich and swallowed. She liked it very much.

A sound came out of Justine as if something had popped and now the air was running out. She shook her head with smiling amazement. I have something to say to you.

What?

Not here, she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Later. You won’t want to miss it.

They agreed to meet in his office at five. He plodded through his afternoon class, his lecture waning into abstraction, and their blank faces made it clear that he’d completely lost them. So be it, he thought. He let them go early to make up for it.

Edith was just leaving when he walked into his office. You got a message, she informed him—someone by the name of Shelby.

George shook his head. Not a name that rings any bells.

Warren, I think. You may want to try him. He said it was a matter of importance.

A matter of importance.

The number’s on your desk.

He saw the pink slip sitting there. He listened to Edith’s footsteps fade down the hall, then crumpled the paper up and threw it in the trash.

When Justine finally showed up the room was nearly dark. It was five in the afternoon, the last rays of sunlight pushing through the trees. The river was nearly frozen, the color of asphalt.

Hello, Justine.

You’ve really had us fooled, George.

I don’t know what you mean.

What’s your deal? Her tone seemed hostile.

He glanced at his watch. I’ll need to cut this short.

Do you have plans, George? Do you need to get home to your wife?

Judging from the look on her face, this question was rhetorical. It occurred to him that the only solution with a woman like Justine was to fuck the nerve right out of her. He should have done it when he’d had the chance.

What’s this all about, Justine?

She sighed, seemingly flummoxed. Why do people get married?

Children, he proposed amenably, assuming she was getting to the point.

I’m married, but don’t have any. Maybe we will someday. I don’t know. I’m not sure. But I know I married for love.

You’re an optimist, then.

Love is all that matters.

Justine, he said. What’s going on?

That girl. I saw her.

I’m afraid I don’t—

She was wearing one of my scarves. The one you bought for Edith. There’s no use denying it. I took one look at her and I knew.

He sifted through his ready list of excuses, but it was hard to lie to Justine. So?

I’d heard rumors. I assumed you were better than that. It’s a small town, George. People are talking.

Let them talk. That’s one thing fools are good at.

You’re disgusting.

Calm down, Justine. He opened his drawer, and took out the bottle of bourbon and poured them each a drink.

Who is she?

Nobody. Just some girl I met. He took a sip but Justine didn’t touch hers.

What’s going on?

Nothing.

I find that hard to believe.

You seem unusually interested, Justine.

I care about Catherine. She’s a good friend of mine.

Oh, you’ve made that perfectly clear.

What’s that supposed to mean, George?

It means you should mind your own fucking business.

Is that what you want? She stood up. Because I can do that. Gladly.

She started to leave but he grabbed her arm and she winced. He closed the door and pushed her up against it and clutched her hair at the back of her neck, tangling it in his fingers, and ran his hands down her body. Somehow she pulled away, looking morally assaulted.

You’re going to be sorry for that, she said, then grabbed her bag and ran out.

He followed her into the empty corridor. Justine!

But she only quickened her gait, intent on escape, noisily galloping down the stairs in her little half-boots.

Justine! What are you running away for?

They were now in the dark parking lot, and it occurred to him that in just a short span of time they had become strangers to each other. Justine, he said.

Leave me alone.

He stood there watching her fumble with the keys and finally slump into the car. Slowly, almost methodically, he walked to his own car and started the engine. She was a cautious driver and he easily caught up. She turned onto the main road, heading home, and he decided to follow. He could see her eyes flashing in her mirror, a look of terror on her face. It angered him; she was getting this all wrong. If she’d just stop for a minute, he could explain everything. He pushed the pedal down, nudging up to her rear, just brushing her bumper. Again her eyes flashed, her nostrils flared, but it was a comical expression that made him smile and it was like they were playing a game. On the empty road she was doing seventy, eighty, probably faster than she’d ever driven, and he was riding her hard, hissing, Justine, you fucking cunt! You glorious fucking cunt!

He’d forgotten about the curve—it came up so quickly—and he hit his brakes and watched her plow into the guardrail, then flip over into the ravine. The car turned over and over, rolling down the slope.

He pulled over and got out and watched its spectacular fall. Headlights crossed his back. Another car had pulled onto the shoulder. A man shouted, What happened?

I don’t know, George said. They ran off the road.

Maybe drunk, the man said.

I’ll go call someone, George said. There’s a gas station down the road. And that’s what he did. From the pay phone at the Texaco station he called the police and told them what he’d seen and that they’d better send an ambulance. They told him to wait on the line so they could take down his name and information; he hung up.

—

THEY GOT THE CALL
in the middle of the night. George could hear Bram’s voice coming through the phone. Catherine sat on the edge of the bed, turned away from him, like he didn’t deserve to hear the news. She hung up the phone and sat there a minute, as if gathering the strength to utter the words. It’s Justine.

What? What about her?

She was in an accident. She’s in a coma.

In the morning, they went to the hospital. They weren’t allowed to see her, but Bram came out and they went down to the coffee shop across the street and had breakfast. For some reason he was hungry and ordered fried eggs, muffins, sausage, even cornflakes.

It wasn’t like her to drive fast, Bram said. That’s why she loved that old Volvo—it rattled if you went over seventy. He smiled, shaking his head. I was trying to talk her into buying a new car. But she refused, said she loved that old wagon, that god-awful dirty white. It was her mother’s car. It saved her life.

Even if she came out of the coma, he explained, she might never walk again. It remains to be seen, he said. They don’t know. It’s just too early to tell.

God willing she’ll be all right, Catherine said. I’m going to pray for her.

You do that, George thought.

He went to the register and took care of the bill. In the lobby, he shook Bram’s hand. Anything you need. Just let us know what we can do.

Later that afternoon, he drove into Albany, to the Sears, and bought his wife a dishwasher. He bought the cheapest model on the floor and paid to have it delivered and asked the salesman to make sure to put a red ribbon on it. His wife, he told him, would be getting what she wanted for Christmas.

4

IT RAINED
all afternoon. She stayed on the couch, watching cartoons with Franny under a blanket, her body heavy, enervated, like she was sick. When she heard his car she didn’t even move. She stayed where she was. It was strange to think that Franny could protect her, but that’s how she felt.